


A Light That Shines In Darkness

by isitandwonder



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Coming Out, Eventual kind of happy ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, No Smut, Past Child Abuse, Suicide Attempt, The abuse doesn't happen between Timmy and Armie, a lil bit of smut, loads of hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-24 10:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13809468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: When Timothèe had won the Oscar in 2018, he'd been everybody's darling, the golden boy. But three years later, he's hit rock bottom. Because there are things you can't run from in your life, no matter how hard you try. Same goes for Armie by the way.This is how broken people eventually fall in love.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, sorry, this story popped into my head and I simply had to write it. It's not a very nice story. Heed the tags! But as I read some older interviews I got the idea that in both their lives something truly unsettling could have happened.  
> Of course, this is a work of fiction. As you'll see, I've been quite liberal with dates and timelines. If you think you can identify real people, take a deep breath and let it pass. Because nothing of this ever happened.  
> This story is finished. I'll try to post daily until the weekend. I know, not the most positive of runners up to the Oscars but I simply couldn't help it.  
> Contrary to my usual writing, there's not much sex in this. Sorry, but it's just not that kind of story. There might be some action in the epilogue but I doubt it will very raunchy. Just so you know.

In retrospect, winning the Oscar at 22 turned out to be the worst thing that could have happened to Timothèe. He didn't know back then, but now, three years later, it's obvious that it had all declined from there.

Or had it started even earlier, that foggy day in late March 2016 when he'd arrived in Italy? Or four weeks later, when that giant had burst through the door and disrupted his piano lesson?

No, Timmy thinks, even as fucked as he is now, he can't bring himself to regret the summer he'd had with Armie. Those had been the few truly blissful weeks in his life he can look back on with a sense of happiness, and he simply won't allow them to be tainted by everything that came after... or before.

Because, if he's painfully honest with himself, he knows perfectly well when it all had started to go pear-shaped: The day he'd decided that he was old enough to work alone. He'd found a loophole in Canadian labor law that allowed him to film without a chaperon present, so he'd taken the chance and gone up to Canada to shoot a movie when he'd been barely fifteen. He'd been so eager, young and naive when he'd left, enthusiastic, willing to learn from the best; the director had been one of his childhood heroes.

When he'd come back he'd changed.

He usually doesn't dwell on this period of his life but today he can't help it. Because it's his birthday and he's therefore bound to drown in nostalgia. And because they'll meet again tonight, after almost ten years. And Timothèe can't refuse. He can't decline. He's simply not in the position.

Like it had been ten years ago in Canada. Only today, he knows what might be coming for him. Back then, he was so fucking clueless. And he paid for it.

Since then, he'd only opened up about what happened once. With Armie. In Crema.

It had been during shooting their sex scenes. As early as they'd done the first kiss Timothée had become irritable, which was highly unusual for him. He'd been keen and euphoric before – both on set and off – because he had felt that this movie could really be it. There was a palpable energy surrounding the production that infused everything with beauty and meaning.

It wasn't that he hadn't known he'd have to film intimate scenes with a man. They were an integral part of the story, driving the plot – not just some lewd embellishments included to satisfy the voyeuristic demands of the audience. He'd trusted Luca, and Armie. So it had come as quite a surprise what those scenes did to him. With him.

Of course, they'd discussed it beforehand. They'd rehearsed. They'd set their boundaries. It had all been okay. Armie had been understanding and accepting. God, he'd been one of Timmy's best friends by then, they'd talked about so many things, shared touches and hugs... but nonetheless, when it had been time to do the deed it had totally thrown Timmy.

Yet he hadn't wanted to come over as unprofessional, so he'd tried to hide it – needless to say, Armie had seen right through him. However, when he'd tried to talk to him Timmy had closed off and deflected.

The resulting tension between them eventually had gotten to Armie as well. Timmy had sensed that something had shifted, but was still shocked when Armie had let off steam by shouting at Luca of all people in the built up to the midnight scene. Armie, who had already been moody at the beginning of the take, had started yelling at Luca when the director had made him repeat the shot in which he caressed Timmy's hand. One word had given another until they both had left the set to talk.

Miraculously, next day, everything had changed. Armie had been different – truly at ease now, obviously inhabiting his role with a bashful, bolt awareness and presence that had upped Timmy's game as well.

Until Timmy had crashed because he had to mime being fucked by a guy! He had no idea how he'd gotten through the midnight scene – he still hates to call it the first time scene because of memories associated with this particular phrase – it had all happened in a blurry fog. Thankfully, Sayombhu had panned the camera away before they would’ve had to feign actual intercourse.

Timmy wouldn't have been able to do that.

He still doesn’t like to watch the scene and falls silent every time he has to look at it.

Back in Crema during shooting he had tried to hold it together by sheer willpower despite his almost physical revulsion. It had made it easy to display the discomfort the script had demanded at the morning after. His acting in those scenes had got high praise from Luca; unwarranted, as there hadn't been much acting to it… Timmy hadn't had to sham being disgusted, he knew how it felt as had been in that situation before. 

Every actor needs to draw on real emotions and experiences now and then. This scene though had taught Timmy that it could be a dangerous path.

^^^^^^^^^^

He'd finally snapped when Armie had gone down on his knees to fake a blowjob.

“Stop it.” Timmy had whispered, holding onto the door-frame for dear life as not to bolt from the scene. His mouth had been dry and his skin had felt too tight as his stomach had lurched, threatening to expel his breakfast. Armie had immediately registered that something was very wrong.

“What?” He'd asked, looking up at Timmy, not sure if he should’ve been concerned or amused.

“This is wrong...,” Timmy had managed to croak. His head had been spinning as memories had suddenly come back to him, images he'd successfully suppressed for five years now...

Luckily, Armie had caught him as he'd stumbled.

“Hey...,” he'd said, gently stroking Timmy's hair but Timmy had just shoved him, harder than he'd thought possible, to storm off set, banging the old doors of the palazzo shut behind him as he'd run outside into the garden.

There, Armie had found him ten minutes later, sitting with his back against one of the peach trees, his face ghostly pale, streaked with tears.

“Luca's called lunch.” Armie had said as he'd sat down next to Timmy, offering him a cigarette. Timmy usually didn't smoke but had accepted this one with relieve, wiping the back of his hand over his eyes before reaching out.

After Armie had lightened up both fags, they'd just sat there in silence, Timmy's head hanging down while Armie had gazed up at the cloudy sky.

Until he'd suddenly broken the silence.

“Listen, man, I don't know what happened up there...,” Timmy had wanted to apologize then, explain his lapse away with some superficial lie, but Armie had raised his hand to quieten him and talked on. “For what it's worth, I know how to give a blow job.”

Timmy had swallowed and played with the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “That’s not what I meant when I said that this was wrong.” He’d whispered, staring down at the ground, blushing furiously. It hadn’t fully registered what Armie had been admitting until he had continued.

“I thought so, but let me be quite clear here. Maybe I should’ve told you all of this before but then I have the feeling that you haven't been honest with me either so we are even.” Armie had fallen silent again and taken a deep drag, the cigarette almost burning down to his fingers. “When I moved to Hollywood to pursue an acting career I had nothing but my looks – no agent, no training, no connections. So, yeah, I went to these hotel rooms to meet producers and directors. I let them feel me up a bit. I got on my knees from time to time as well. How else was I going to make it? It got me my first roles and put me in a position where I was eventually able to refuse those... advances. It wasn't always nice but it was the way things were. Are. I got offers and I accepted. Not voluntarily but... I wasn't outright forced either. I could’ve declined, said no... but then I wouldn't be here right now. With you...”

Armie had stabbed out his fag and stared Timmy square in the face.

“Why are you telling me this?” Timmy had asked after a while, when he'd trusted his voice again, stealing Oliver's line.

Of course, Armie had answered with Elio's sentence: “Because I wanted you to know.” He'd smiled down at Timmy, a strange look in his eyes. Pity? Guilt? Sadness? “You can always talk to me.” He'd said before he'd gotten to his feet, stretched, looked over to the house, waved at someone and left Timmy to his own devices.

^^^^^^^^^^

Whatever had started to bubble to the surface afterwards had finally erupted when they'd been shooting the infamous peach scene a few days later. They'd shot three different version, and in two of them, Armie had eaten the peach. But Luca hadn’t been convinced. He’d called one more take. 

This time, Elio had fought Oliver – resulting in Armie grabbing Timmy's arm so hard that it had truly hurt, pinning him against the mattress, holding him down.

That's when Timmy had lost it completely and broke down, a blubbering mess. It had been Armie who’d taken him in his arms and kissed him – not Oliver – and when Luca had called cut, he’d congratulated Timmy on his acting choice.

Only, he had been unable to stop crying...

Armie had to take him downstairs into their room and sat him on the bed, wrapping him in a sheet, holding him through it. Timmy had sobbed so hard his throat had started to hurt; his whole body had been shaking and his teeth had chattered despite the warm evening.

“You’re in shock.” Armie had told him and Timmy had buried his damp face against his neck and had wept some more.

Night had fallen while the crew had silently packed up, leaving them their space. Even Luca had avoided them. Eventually, Timmy had fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

It had been surreal to wake up in the middle of the night in Armie's arms on set but without a boom dangling above them or a camera watching them. He had no idea what time it had been or how long he'd slept while Armie had stroked his back, his hair...

It had felt just natural to curl up beside him. 

Up until now, Armie hadn't asked him anything but suddenly Timmy had felt the overwhelming urge to talk.

And so, in Elio's and Oliver's darkened bedroom, Timmy had told Armie what he hadn't told anyone else. It had been his secret, but now he'd felt ready to share it with the one person he truly trusted in his life.

“When I was fifteen I was shooting a movie in Canada for about six weeks. I had gone alone. It was my first big franchise and I was very keen. Hyped. I knew if I was good in it other stuff would follow. The director was my idol, he'd done Dark Knight which got me into acting when I was about twelve. I worshiped the ground beneath his feet.” Timmy had been silent for a long time, remembering his Canadian summer so different from this Italian one.

“There was an actor... I played him at a younger age. He said we should get to know each other to find the vibe, the flow, to pick up mannerisms, develop the character... bla bla bla. I know that now but back then I was so fucking impressed. That he even talked to me, wanted to spend time with me... He said he would call his agent to take a look at me...” Timmy had coiled in on himself, rolling into a tight ball next to Armie who'd gently tightened his grip around his shoulder.

“You don't have to tell me this, you know...,” he'd whispered into Timmy's short curls and Timmy had nodded, taking a deep breath.

“I was so stupid. I was so fucking naive. I thought he'd taken an interest in me as a fellow artist.”

“You were very young.” Armie’s voice had been even, calm, yet tinged with misery.

“Yeah. I think that was the point.” Timmy had laughed dryly. There had been no humor in his voice. 

He'd closed his eyes and ploughed on. “He invited me over to his caravan. We talked, played Xbox, listened to music... he treated me like an equal... I liked him, I really liked him.” Timmy had trembled, moving closer to Armie who'd pulled another blanket over them. It had started to rain by then and the drizzle had been gushing against the windows, the wind rattling at the blinds.

“When he kissed me I didn't say no. I knew I liked boys as well so... I thought I could try... with a man.” Timmy had been sprawled over Armie’s body as if he’d wanted to crawl inside him, resting his cheek on Armie's broad chest. He had heard his heart pound against his ribs, fast and hard. It had been strangely comforting. Armie's thumb had rubbed circles into his upper arm, soothing him.

“I didn't say no when he started to touch me either.” Armie had inhaled sharply at this. “I didn't... I never said no. Not even when... when he...” He'd been unable to go on. Bile had risen in his throat and he had to swallow it back down as not to throw up all over Armie.

“Did he hurt you?” Armie had asked quietly.

“Yes.” Timmy had exhaled. It had been the first time he'd admitted it. “He said he loved me, afterwards. He said I was special. He said I was beautiful. No one had ever, before...”

“Did this happen only once?”

Timmy had shaken his head, too ashamed to say it out loud.

“How often?”

“Five weeks, almost every night.” He'd been surprised that he hadn't cried again but perhaps he'd been empty. “I never said no.”

“I'm so fucking sorry. I know it doesn’t help but I am.” There had been anger in Armie’s voice, a sharp, cold rage up until then unknown to Timmy.

He’d only shrugged. “I didn't even meet his agent. There was no time... and then my shoot was over. He called me a few times when I was back in New York. He wanted to meet but I... couldn't. Eventually, he stopped.”

They had both been quiet for a long time afterwards, just breathing together, holding each other, cherishing each others warmth.

“You should have told me before we started this.” Armie had said eventually.

“You didn't either.” Timmy had smiled a sad smile.

“True. But I wasn't raped.”

That word had hit Timmy like a punch to the gut. He'd never called it rape, not even to himself. “I wasn't... that's not...” It had been a reflex to deny it even then.

“He shoved his cock up your arse when you were fifteen. Of course that's rape.”

Armie putting it so bluntly had knocked all air out of Timmy's lungs. He'd felt at the verge of hyperventilating. “But... I never said no.”

“You were fifteen. You couldn't consent. And he knew. You said it hurt. That's rape.” Armie had sat up and Timmy had feared he would leave him, disgusted by his weakness and his whiny moping…

So he'd clung to Armie for dear life. “But you told me earlier...” He hadn't been able to say it out loud.

“I was an adult. I knew what I agreed to. It was a trade of sorts. I didn't like it but... Jesus, Timmy, let’s not do this, okay. Let's not compare our scars.”

They'd lain there for at least another half hour, trying to calm down in each others arms. Eventually, Armie had suggested to get up and over to their apartments.

“You can crash at my place tonight.” He'd offered. “Or do you want to go to your flat? I can stay with you there as well. Or do you want to be alone?”

Timmy had shaken his head. “Let's go to your place.” He'd whispered.

Physically and emotionally drained, they'd fallen asleep in Armie's bed without even undressing. That had been how the AD had found them the next morning as they'd been late for breakfast. He'd snapped a pic of them, holding each other, bodies entwined, which he'd send them and Luca with a humorous yet slightly obscene caption. Anyway, they'd both stored it on their phones as a memory of an important night and never shared it with anyone. It had been too private.

Little had they known that a couple years later it would nip them in the butt and destroy both their lives.

They’d kept that sleeping arrangement until Elizabeth had arrived for the last days of shooting, when they’d all transferred to Bergamo. It had just been that, sharing a bed, holding each other, waking up together, entangled, exchanging soft touches and sometimes an almost chaste kiss. It had comforted them both and Timmy hadn’t been sure who of them had needed it more.

^^^^^^^^^^

Water under the bridge... Timmy thinks. Tonight he'll meet James again. They are both up for a hot new project, and Timmy's career needs it. Beggars can't be choosers. Besides, from what he's heard, he's too old now. James likes them young.

They'd seen each other from afar over the years, of course. Theirs is a small world and you really can't avoid people. Not that he hadn't tried. The closest they'd come had been at some Golden Globe dinner when he'd been on the rise. Luckily, Armie had been there back then and as they'd both been sloshed and high as kites by the end of the evening, Timmy doesn't remember much. Only that he’d succeeded in keeping his distance.

Mostly.

Because on one occasion during that night, as James had started to get touchy-feely, Armie had stepped in and distracted him with his jovial presence, determinedly inserting his 6'5 frame between Timmy and his pursuer from years ago, shielding him with his body.

Timmy had been so grateful that he'd almost cried. God, he'd been such a pussy.

Remembering, he lights another spliff. Preparation, he calls it these days. He knows he should really get into his Gucci suit and leave but he's still sitting on the floor of his small apartment listening to Frank Ocean half an hour later. He hasn't showered in days and his hair is greasy, too long, riotous. He hasn't eaten either. But who needs food when one has Xanax?

Sometimes he wonders what has happened? How the golden boy wonder from a few years ago became this self-loathing, anxiety-ridden wreckage... And then he goes back to the Oscar he'd won at 22. And to Crema, and to Canada... and it starts all over again. And again. And again...

Darkness falls over Manhattan while Timmy listens to his music, mouthing the lines as they blast from his speakers...

_Leave myself at the wraths of you_  
_At the mercy, of you_  
_And I be needing my sleep_


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie's POV

Usually, Armie hates this sort of thing – industry get-together, filled with insincere backslapping, false compliments and spiteful chitchat once you turn your back. He didn't like it back in LA and has come to outright loath it in New York, where most of the time it’s so fucking cold you freeze your balls off when you try to escape outside to have a smoke. The icy winter weather has robbed him even of this small comfort.

But tonight it's different. Not that he's especially keen to attend the event – but it's a special day, and he simply has to be there. They last saw each other... when? Over two years ago?

The divorce had been ugly, despite his best intentions. When the pic from Crema had surfaced, with him and Timmy curled up in bed together, clearly taken off set, it had been the final straw to a marriage that had been rocky ever since he’d returned from Italy.

They had tried, though. They had two kids, for god's sake, so they were fucking bound to try. And it had seemed... good... for a while. Liz did accept that something had started to work within him. She hadn’t understood but she was willing to put up with it for the sake of their family, their careers, their life together.

She'd also welcomed Timmy into their life together, after they’d talked about it, about him. She'd outright asked and Armie had truthfully denied that anything untoward had happened. He hadn’t had a crush on his young co-star, and that had to be the truth. Liz knew enough about film making that she didn't even suspect that those nude scenes had been arousing or even pleasurable, so it was easy to convince her that what she saw was acting. Brilliant acting, but just acting. Hell, she'd been there for most of the filming...

That didn't mean that nothing had happened _off_ set; Armie confessed to himself in the wee hours when he lay awake next to his wife, gazing in wonder at their new-born son, that perhaps he hadn't been absolutely honest with Liz.

But did she really _want_ to know? Did she really _need_ to know? When even he didn't know what was going on with him? He couldn't explain it. He couldn't even understand it. He had no words to describe his feelings. He felt dumbfounded, numb, and this only changed when he spent time with Timmy.

He'd tried a few times, drunk or high or both, to put into words what ate away at him, subjecting Timmy to increasingly incoherent soliloquies, on the phone or in person when he stayed with them in LA. It had been mostly futile and disastrous once or twice.

As a consequence, Timmy had ceased to drop by. His agents, he'd said, his PR people, his public image…

Armie had known it was a lie but kept his mouth shut, both too hurt and at the same time relieved that they had started to drift apart. Timothée had been on the rise, like a comet, and who was Armie to put a spoke in? The boy deserved it. All of it. So much more than he himself did.

The night Timmy had won the Oscar to the total surprise of simply everyone had been the best, though, a short reunion of their Italian family, partying till sunrise. Timmy had been so happy, elated, at ease. So beautiful, radiating unbridled energy paired with the ardor of youth. It had been irresistible. He’d been irresistible. He'd danced with Saoirse and with Liz and with Esther and, finally, with Armie, a wild jump-around to Love My Way.

Armie had thought nothing could stop him.

But there had been a reckoning. There always was, sooner or later. It had come too soon for Timmy.

First, the Allen movie had been released and the backlash was devastating. In reaction, Timmy's summer project with Netflix was initially postponed before it got silently dropped. The promotion for “Beautiful Boy” was also cut back significantly, with only a very limited release in the US. Of course, Timmy was stellar in it but hardly anyone noticed.

Around that time, the rumors had started to spread. As it had been with the promo for _Call Me By Your Name_ , people tended to confuse the character with the actor. Only, in Timmy's case, there seemed to be a grain of truth in it.

With _Call Me_ , it had been true that Timmy liked boys. Not exclusively, but Armie was pretty sure that something had been going on with that friend who'd visited him on set in Crema, and later with other young men seen in his company. He knew how Timmy looked when he was around someone he truly fancied, how his eyelids drooped and his smile shone brighter. They'd even talked about his experiences with roommates and fellow students – male and female - as they’d prepared for their roles. Because honesty usually let to openness which let to better, more sincere acting.

Until Timmy had dropped that nuclear bomb back in Italy.

Armie clearly remembers the day they’d sat beneath the peach tree. He'd been the veteran actor so it had been his turn to open up first. It hadn't been easy. He'd been glad that he'd had a conversation with Luca about the exact same subject a few days earlier, in preparation for the midnight scene.

Luca had challenged him, criticizing his performance. Later, the director had confronted him, accusing him that he held back, that he was just acting, not feeling, not _being_ , that he wasn't open enough, that it would all fall on his feet if he kept doing it.

In response, Armie did explode. He'd been so fed up with people telling him that he wasn’t good enough, just a pretty face and a nice body with nothing to it but blond hair, blue eyes and bulging muscles. He'd been a little drunk, which is why his guard had been lowered. So he'd asked if Luca had any idea, any idea at all what he'd had to do to get where he was now? Why at first he hadn't wanted to do this _gay fling_ as Armie'd put it, on purpose, to hit Luca where it hurt?

Because he'd known that it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows when older men pursued younger boys.

He'd even thrown a set of rather valuable glasses to the floor – he would replace them when filming was over – before breaking down, sobbing like a little kid in Luca's arms.

“I knew.” Luca'd told him when he'd pulled himself together, later. “You can see it, you know. In a certain... hesitation. A coldness. The look you get in your eyes. That's when you start to hide... to act. Then you try to overcompensate. I saw it at your first rehearsal. I see it in Timmy, too.”

But Armie had refused to acknowledge the meaning of Luca's words until the day Timmy had fled the set following the blow job scene. After that, it had been impossible to ignore. And Armie had come to understand two things: they had to open up to one another, really open up, if this film should be a success. And, second, that the basis for this openness had to be trust – and love, in whatever form.

The form of their love had bothered Armie for the next 20 months.

He still isn’t sure.

That’s the reason Armie'd decided to keep his distance. It’s also the reason Armie has failed Timmy spectacularly when he’d probably needed him most. Because he’d been hurt, had felt rejected; and because he’s a coward, unable to address and accept his own feelings.

The nagging doubt had destroyed his marriage in the end but, compared to Timmy, he'd been lucky.

Because Timmy had been destroyed as a person. Completely.

He'd always been too thin but in the last pap pics Armie has seen, he'd looked emaciated. His hair, skin and eyes have lost their glow. Rumors about drugs – hard drugs – were making the rounds for some time now.

And so, slowly, Timmy’s promising career had dried up over the last couple years. Overexposure. Too much pressure. The involuntary outing. People questioning his acting ability because by now everyone thought they'd just been fucking in Crema and Luca'd shot a kind of documentary. 

He'd heard demands Timmy should give his Oscar back.

Armie knows that this must have been the worst, being denied his acting abilities. Because Timmy is a full-blooded actor. He needs to act. He can’t stand being rejected, or watch a film with a part in it he'd auditioned for but didn't get.

It’s not that Armie hadn't been affected by the backlash. But he’s an established actor with a long list of credits to his name and more than ten years of experience. True, the divorce had hit him hard, he’d drunk too much in the aftermath but since last summer he has gained back solid ground beneath his feet.

He'd left LA and moved to New York where he'd reveled in success ever since he first starred on Broadway. He'd known that movie parts would be hard to come by in the foreseeable future, and therefore had thrown himself into the theater world. Michael did help. And it was good to seek new challenges. It boosted his self-esteem. For the first time, people started to recognize him as the accomplished, funny, deep actor he always knew he could be.

All the shit that had gone down had finally freed him to be who he was. He should have been happy.

Only, he knows that Timmy is fading just a few blocks away. It’s strange, despite of moving in the same circles, they've never met since Armie arrived in New York. It must be because Timmy doesn’t go out much anymore. Armie has also heard that he'd been in France to shoot a movie. Something experimental. Good for him, but it wouldn't revive his career over here.

Then EW did bring a story a few weeks back that Chalamet was in the run up for a big-budget film, directed by PTA, with an old acquaintance in the lead, who'd specifically requested to work with Timothèe _again_.

Armie had to run into the bathroom and brought up his breakfast when he'd read the name.

Had it been coincidence that only a few days later he'd received an invitation to the project's launch party, held at the Mandarin Oriental to flatter investors and get the buzz going? He'd wondered who'd invite him to an event with Timmy in attendance, after the scandal, the outing, the divorce... but perhaps enough time had passed? Perhaps he is by now so established in New York’s theater world that one can not not invite him (he'd won a Tony Award after all)? Perhaps it had just been an accident, a new intern too young to remember? 

Or it had been Timmy's doing?

Armie doesn’t allow himself to hope for the latter. Though the date is December 27th...


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie and Timmy meet and things escalate. Also, Armie has an Armie-moment.

Armie, who hadn't touched a drink for three months – since his last premiere – is sloshed by nine o'clock. And there's still no show from Timmy.

He can see some of the production company's PR people getting nervous by now, tensely whispering into their phones while a steep crease forms between their plugged eyebrows.

Meanwhile, the person Armie hates most in the room holds court. He's lounging on a huge sofa near one of the panorama windows overlooking Manhattan, surrounded by the (very) young and hopeful. It doesn’t escape Armie that he has his eyes on one of the waiters – a dark-haired twink who looks about twelve – and it takes all of Armie's self-control to not walk over and throttle that piece of shit.

Despite having met a few colleges he actually likes, Armie feels out of place here. He can't bring himself to congratulate James on his new part. The whole project is tainted for him because of what he knows. With growing unease, he watches the other guests, oblivious to what went on (or are they? One never knows with actors), getting excited, praising the cast and crew.

As it's impossible for Armie to join in, he resorts to booze. Hugh, with whom he'd been in a play last year and who has his own beef with James, gives him a look from the other end of the room, raising an eyebrow, and Armie is tempted, so tempted, to tell him what he knows, but in the end he would only betray Timmy's confidence, just at a time when he has the chance to get back onto his feet. Yet the idea of exchanging just a few honest words with someone is enticing.

Just as Armie fears he'll be unable to stand any of this a minute longer, a hum starts near the doorway. Heads are turning, people step aside – and there he is, Timmy, still thin as a beanpole, his long curls framing his delicate, pale face, his green eyes bright and matching his suit, his mouth a shiny red cherry... there are a few lines around his eyes but otherwise he seems so unchanged that it knocks Armie off-kilter. He steps back into a corner, raising his glass in front of his face.

He shouldn't have been drinking. He knows that once he starts he can't stop and it always leads to trouble. And yet, staying sober is not an option either. He needs to anesthetize the hovering pain or the barely healed wound will crack open again, bleeding him dry. He’s surprised how much it hurts to see Timmy again.

By now he can feel his control slipping and that isn't a good sign. If Liz was still around she would take care of the situation. But she's in LA with Nicki and the kids while he can't take his eyes of Timmy as the alcohol roars in his system, making him both maudlin and reckless.

He should have left while he still could. Now it's too late.

He watches as Timmy is bustled over to the couch were James moves to let him slide next to him. Soon, there's a drink in Timmy's hand and young actor smooches against his back. Pics are taken, Timmy smiles, turns his head, tosses his hair – and you have to know him really well to see that he's miles away.

Armie looks on as Timmy has no idea where to place his lithe body – he doesn't want to come too close to James but is visibly equally revolted by leaning in against the barely legal youngster at his right. So he squirms and fidgets while smiling his sweet smile that doesn't reach his dead eyes. Armie still can read him like an open book and wonders how all of this can escape the other guests.

Perhaps they just don't care as much as he does?

When the photos have been taken and the excitement upon his arrival has died down, Armie sees Timmy mumble something to no one in particular before slipping away. Armie first thinks he's walking over to the bar but then realizes that he makes his way to the far corner of the room near another window, turning his back to the room to gaze out over the dark city.

There, where he deems himself unobserved, Armie sees Timmy’s shoulders slump and his head hang down, his hair hiding his expression reflected in the window pane. Like a puppet with its strings cut. The deprecating aura he exudes is painted all the bleaker by a forlorn sorrow radiating off him that makes Armie's heart ache. No one tries to approach him. Even the waiters steer clear of him.

He's making himself invisible – they once talked about that, and also about his huge capacity of self-loathing raising its sad head specifically at parties. It didn't come as a surprise back then with all Armie had learned about him but witnessing it now hurts nonetheless.

Armie knows he should leave, he really should, but instead he grabs another drink from a tray floating by and immerses himself in the shadows of the room – not the easiest when you are 6'5 and a prominent celebrity.

And so it happens that of course some important producer spots him in his hidyhole and starts to tell him about a new play he’ll do in spring, hinting that his name came up during discussions. As it sounds actually rather interesting, Armie finds himself drawn into the conversation, turning his back to the lonely figure by the window. It's just for a few minutes – the producer isn't the usual sort of tedious nuisance, quickly hands Armie his card and tells him to call tomorrow so they could grab lunch the next week – but when Armie dares to look back at where Timmy used to stand all by himself he feels a chill run down his spine.

It's a somewhat hidden corner, behind a huge tropical plant flanked by a set of armchairs. The light is dim but still bright enough that Armie can see that someone has joined Timmy. It's James. And he's touching him – holding his biceps in a death grip. Their faces are close together and Armie knows without uncertainty that Timmy is frozen, like a deer in the headlights. His body is rigid, pulled up to his full 6'1, but he seems small nonetheless and... afraid. His shoulders are hunched and his profile is gaunt, with a haunted air surrounding him while his fists at his side are clenched tight.

If he hadn't downed one Scotch after another over the last hour, Armie might have stayed put where he is. This wasn't his fight. Timmy was an adult by now, an established actor, able to fight for himself. He hadn't spoken to him in years. Were they even friends anymore?

And yet, seeing him like this – terrified and absolutely helpless, a grown man reduced to a fearful teenager once again – something inside Armie's brain just snaps. It's like a fuse blowing. He puts his drink down on one of the bar tables as he makes his way over to the corner by the window, looking neither left nor right, only focused on the scene playing out there.

James is talking to Timmy, swaying a little, trying to pull him in. He succeeds eventually and is able to whisper something in Timmy's ear. Armie can't hear it and can't see Timmy's face but his revulsion is unmissable in the tilt of his head and the arch of his back.

That man who’s so close that their bodies almost touch had fucked a fifteen year old Timmy for five weeks, and it had hurt him, and it doesn't matter right now that this was ten years ago – neither to Timmy nor to Armie.

Armie is proud of himself that he doesn't just deck him with a right hook, sending the motherfucker flying into the artificial greenery. Instead, he just steps up to them and puts his arm around Timmy's shoulder.

It’s painful to realize that Timmy jumps at the contact. It’s also painful to realist that Armie can feel his bony shoulder joints through the expensive fabric of his jacket.

“Hey, man, long time no see.” Armie greets him and when their eyes meet he tries to telegraph 'It's okay, I'm here, you’re safe now, he can’t do anything as long as I’m by your side'.

But Timmy's eyes are glassy with fear and something else that Armie knows but can't put his finger on. So close-up his face is ashen, waxen, with rings under his eyes and lines around his pretty mouth. At first, he doesn't even seem to recognize Armie.

Moreover, James doesn't step back or lets go but holds onto Timmy's arm. He's trapped in between them and Armie is aware what a perilous sandwich they make.

“Oh, hi... what a reunion.” James slurs. “But I think you should get in line, Hammer. This boy and I go back a looong way, don't we, Timo?” His grin is salacious as his thumb digs into Timmy's upper arm.

That's when Armie pushes the asshole, not heavy, but as he's quite inebriated already it's enough to send James flying backwards, crashing into the wall. He looks up more astonished than hurt - hissing “Fuck you, Hammer!” - and then there's the familiar buzzing sound Armie knows from red carpets as phones start to snap pictures, flashes brightening their previously dark corner.

Armie just pulls Timmy away without another word. The young man does neither resist nor look back as Armie carefully guides him from the venue, trying to shelter him from the other guests intrusive stares as best he can. Only as they've almost reached the door does Armie turn and, unable to suppress a smirk, shouts to the room full of astonished celebrities: “The wedding's in May. None of you are invited.”

If he's hoped that this would elicit at least a smile from Timmy hanging by his side like a wet blanket, he's disappointed. Instead, Timmy stays eerily silent all the way to the cab in which Armie bundles him before he gets in next to him on the back seat, giving the driver the address of his apartment in Hell's Kitchen.

“You come back to my place, Timmy. We need to talk.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they talk.

“You look like shit.” Armie slides a mug of coffee over to where Timmy more slouches than sits on one of the bar stools at Armie's kitchen aisle.

“Long time no see, Timmy. How are you, Timmy? How's your career doing, Timmy? Do you still have that funny French boyfriend, Timmy?” Timmy parrots in a scary imitation of Armie's overtly cordial tone.

“Have you?” Armie goes all in; no use to hide or deflect, not anymore.

Timmy seems surprised but instead of an answer he turns his pinched face away to look outside the window, silenced by Armie's boldness. He grew up in the building just around the corner.

The view doesn’t offer him much condolences so he returns his gaze to his steaming mug.

“I thought you'd call.” He mumbles eventually, still not facing Armie, before taking a sip of his hot coffee, their eyes finally meeting over the rims of their cups.

“I thought _you_ would call.” Armie retorts.

Timmy puts his mug down and twists it in his slender hands. They tremble just a little. “Yeah, sorry, but you know how it is, I was just a little busy with being publicly outed, watching my career go south.” His words drip with venom despite his soft voice.

“Well, while I was just in the middle of an ugly divorce spiked with a custody battle in which my now ex-wife called me... wait, what was it? Oh, yeah, 'an unhinged alcoholic dope-head with violent sexual tendencies and probably pedophilic inclinations'. That went down rather smooth in court. I'm still not allowed to see my kids unsupervised and more than once a month but I'm sure that pales against you not being cast in the latest del Torro movie.” He knows he sounds bitter but he can't help it. He has to put up a hand to his eyes and pinch the back of his nose as to not embarrass himself any further.

Timmy's face goes slack with a mixture of ugly torment and even uglier guilt. “I didn't know.”

“Then my overpaid PR people did a good job.” Armie quips. He desperately wants a drink but knows that he already had enough. Otherwise, they wouldn't have ended up at his place at ten at night after he’d kidnapped Timmy from his own party.

“It's all my fault.” Timmy sighs, staring at his hands still wrapped around the mug. It says 'Best Dad Ever' and that doesn't help at all.

“Shut it. It's my fault. It's Liz's fault. It's the fault of that poor AD who shared that pic on insta while whacked. It’s Luca’s fault. It’s Damian’s fault. Don’t you see? It's nobody’s fault. If there's random luck of the universe there must be the opposite as well.” 

“Still...,” Timmy whispers.

“Stop it!” Armie's mug crashes against the wall behind Timmy, leaving an artistic splatter of dark-brown coffee stains on the white plaster. 

Timmy doesn't flinch. His pupils are the size of pinpricks and all his movements seem like slow motion, as if he has to wade through jelly.

“Perhaps Liz was right when it comes to your violent tendencies.” He slurs, carefully craning his neck to look over his shoulder at the mess behind him.

Armie stares at him in shock mixed with the deep satisfaction that always comes over him when he’s smashed something. As Timmy absentmindedly starts to scratch his bony wrist poking out from his sleeve, he can’t avoid noticing the dark-brown marks where Timmy has again and again picked at the scab. Armie slowly shakes his head. 

It dawns on him then just how much those past couple years have changed Timmy. The sprightly boy he’d once been has vanished and got replaced by this cynical young man who’s heading down the path to hell without looking neither left nor right. Armie has simply no idea who this guy sitting in his kitchen is, but he’s definitely a long way from the glorious days of March 2018 or May 2016.

“This was a mistake.” Armie tells the Timmy-shaped shell occupying space in his flat. He suddenly feels tired, overwhelmed by memories clashing with brutal reality. “We should go to sleep. I'll take the couch, you can have the bed tonight.”

“What makes you think I'll stay?” The man who looks like a washed-out copy of his Timothèe asks.

“Because I won't let you leave this apartment in the state you're in.” Armie says firmly. He's locked the door on their way in.

“What state?” There’s anger in Timmy’s tone; he’s pouting like a spoiled teenager.

“What are you on, hm?”

Thin shoulders rise in an indifferent shrug. “Xanax. Dope. Something that was quite expensive and had a rather nice numbing effect until about half an hour ago.”

“You don't even know what it is you drop?”

“I didn't drop it.” The man stares him square in the face. This is bad. Armie's not equipped to deal with this level of self-destructive behavior, not in his own fragile state of recovery. He sighs in exasperation.

“Jesus! You know... No, forget it. Forget I asked. Perhaps you should leave. I don't know what I was thinking, man...”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? Like, always… you just don’t… you just don’t make up your mind. You do a thing and then you regret it and try to backpedal but… that doesn’t make it go away, you know.” Timmy’s voice cracks. There are two bright red spots blooming on his pale, sunken cheeks. “You can’t wipe your slate clean just like that.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, looking suddenly very French.

They are not talking about tonight anymore.

“I know.” Armie retorts, quietly, but Timmy doesn’t seem to hear him.

“You wanted to be my knight in shining armor, Armand. It's just, I'm not your blushing maiden.” Timmy sounds raw, spitting his last words at Armie before sliding from the bar stool. As he stands he seems to need a moment to find his bearings, swaying slightly while turning around, looking for an escape route.

“In fairytales it’s always ‘and they lived happily ever after’ but we are never told just how…” He trails off.

“Oh, believe me, I thought a lot about the how.” Armie confesses, resting his elbows on the kitchen aisle between them, raking his hands through his short blond hair. “And the why. But I couldn’t wrap my head around it. And then you pushed me away…”

“ _I_ pushed _you_ away? _You_ were the one married with kids who called me late at night and just breathed into my phone, totally stoned, telling me how much you missed me but when we met you didn’t even hug me!” Timmy yells and has to grab the counter to keep upright as his knees threat to give out beneath him. “I had to watch you and Liz at all these awards, holding hands… I had to listen to you and Liz in your bedroom upstairs… and I just couldn’t do that any longer…”

A vein is throbbing at Timmy’s temple. Armie wants nothing more than to pull him close but he’s sure that right now Timmy would more likely punch him in the face than allow to be touched. So he tries to put his thoughts into words instead; a rare occasion.

“And I… I couldn’t… after what you told me I thought how could you want… me… that… with me? I thought it would remind you… and then… I couldn’t bear to do this to you.” Every word he mutters pains Armie's physically.

“What?” Timmy’s voice is shrill with astonishment.

“I thought you just wanted a friend! And I felt like an asshole because all I could think off when we shared a bed back in Crema was that I wanted to fuck you through the mattress.” Armie feels surprisingly calm now that he's said it.

Timmy almost topples over with laughter but Armie doesn’t care anymore. Let him laugh. It’s better than running for the hills or calling him the sick fuck he is – wanting nothing more than to bang the boy who’d just confessed to him getting raped by another actor when he’d been merely a teenager. Smooth, Hammer.

Timmy’s still giggling. All the shouting has brought color to his face and a sparkle to his eyes. He brings one hand to his mouth as if to silence himself but it’s no use.

“Shit, I’m sorry…,” Armie starts, raising his hands as if surrendering. “Shall I call you a taxi?”

“Why?” Timmy snorts, trying to regulate his breathing.

“Because off what I just told you? Because earlier tonight another bastard felt you up and wanted to drag you to bed and you might just be a little bit tired of all those older dudes wanting to get into your pants?”

“Are you offering?” Timmy tilts his head. There’s a spark of mirth in his gaze that makes Armie feel hot all over.

Speak or die?

“Would you accept if I did.”

Timmy bites his lower lip, looking at Armie from under his lashes before he quickly turns around and walks over to the couch. Yet he doesn’t sit down. He just seems to need some space.

“We are still very good at dancing around the elephant in the room, don’t you think?”

Armie watches Timmy shrugging off his expensive jacket and feels his mouth go dry. He’s wearing a thin white long-sleeve beneath that’s hugging his lithe body so tightly Armie can see his sharp shoulder blades sticking out like wings. 

Armie’s head feels totally empty. He can’t think of anything he could possibly say in reply. So he says the first innocuous thing he can come up with: “Happy birthday, sweet tea.”

Armie mentioning his old nickname makes Timmy turn around, still grinning, biting his lower lip. “You remember.”

“I remember everything.” Armie breathes in his best Oliver voice. Timmy rolls his eyes so hard he might be able to see the inside of his skull.

“Oh god, stop it!” But Timmy’s anger has evaporated and got replaced by something curious, almost predatory. He tries to hide his knowing smirk by covering his mouth with both his hands, yet Armie can see the corners of his green eyes crinkle. He looks like a delicate fiendish faun and Armie can feel his stomach drop. Now might be his turn to grab the counter to keep upright.

“So, will you do it? That project with James?” He tries to steer their talk back into less dangerous waters.

“I think you saw to that it that I won’t.” There's no regret in Timmy's tone.

“He's a piece of shit.” Armie spits and Timmy nods before pulling out his phone. He goes to TMZ, then to E!News, Vulture, BuzzFeed...

They are all over the place. The internet's gone simply wild. A somewhat dazed Timmy in Armie's arm stares at him no matter which gossip site he opens. When he turns the screen to show it to Armie, he raises one eyebrow.

Someone has done a flowery manip with Armie's words about a wedding in May floating over their faces.

They both snort a laugh.

“According to the web, we’re engaged.” Timmy smiles as he scrolls through his insta.

“Dude, I'm surely never getting married again. But if I would, you'd be top of my list.” Are they still joking? Is it just Armie who senses an undercurrent that’s veered off into something beyond playful banter?

What the hell are they doing?

Are they flirting?

Is Timmy hitting on him?

“Who else is on there?” Timmy asks as if he’s read Armie’s thoughts. He’s not so much walking as sliding over and around the kitchen aisle, oozing a sensual confidence Armie’s never seen in him before. He steps up close into Armie's personal space and looks up at him, expectant and just a little mischievous. There's a wicked glint in his eyes, a spark of something that he'd seemed to have lost over the past years and Armie's so glad to see it again that he almost, almost closes the distance between them.

“Taika.” He says, waiting for Timmy’s reaction showing on his beautiful, expressive face.

“Seriously? Well, yeah, I mean, he's hot.”

“And Dakota.”

“Ah, but that was just a movie, Armie, and you didn't even like it.”

“She seems open-minded enough.”

“I'm pretty open-minded as well.” Timmy says, taking one step closer. Their faces are just inches apart.

“You are high.” Armie tells him.

“And you are drunk.” Timmy counters, not stepping back.

“This is a bad, bad idea.”

“That's the kindest thing anyone has said to me in months...,” Timmy whispers before he leans in. He tastes of stale smoke and coffee and his body feels way too thin as Armie takes him in his arms, holding him close while gently, very gently kissing him.

If something they hadn't done could ruin their careers and lives, perhaps they should just go for it and see where it takes them, Armie thinks, before he lifts Timmy up onto the marble kitchen aisle to prevent his knees from giving out.

He sits there like a school boy, dangling his long legs. They look at each other as if waiting for something momentous, like time standing still or the ground opening to swallow them both. As nothing earth-shattering happens, Armie wraps his arms around Timmy’s middle and rests his head against his narrow chest. Timmy's pointed chin sits on the crown of his blond hair as he winds his arms and legs around Armie's body in return. It still feels so natural that they both wonder why they ever stopped doing this.

“So…,” Armie says.

“Yeah.” Timmy agrees.

“You stole my line.” Armie murmurs against Timmy's collarbone, his warm breath permeating the thin fabric of Timmy's Gucci shirt.

“It's only fair, you stole my heart.”

“Stop talking.” Armie huffs, rolling his eyes. Timmy just holds him tighter.

“And they say romance is dead.” He giggles, a pearly sound that swells when Armie pokes him in the ribs and starts to tickle him in earnest.

They don't make it to bed that night. Instead, they end up alling asleep on the couch, covered by thick blankets. Timmy's head rests in Armie's lap where he peacefully drools onto the bespoke trousers Armie never took off. They wake the next morning with crooked necks, wrinkled clothes and a taste in their mouths as if something died in there. Something furry.

They kiss nonetheless, laughing so hard they almost fall off the sofa. It actually might have gotten steamy if Timmy hadn't knocked over a bottle of mineral water with one of his impossibly long legs as he flailed under Armie's onslaught.

There are showers to take and calls to make – agents, reps, PR people, the press. They have to find out about how bad the fall-out is. And they can't hide. Armie has a performance tonight, every night except Mondays. Timmy's not sure if he still has a film project on the agenda, though.

“I'm rich. I can keep you as my paramour.” Armie mumbles against Timmy's neck when they share a shower, before he has to cough because he’s swallowed soap.

“And I'm cheap. Damaged goods, remember.” Timmy just leans back into the touch, too tired to think. Armie's not looking too closely at his wiry body, all sharp angles and hard planes. No soft curves. Instead, a dauntingly thick cock between his legs Armie’s not sure what exactly to do with and track marks down both arms. He's so thin that his ribs are clearly showing and his vertebrae protrude from his spine.

They'll both need time to adjust, to heal, to come to terms with all the things that led up to this moment.

But they've decided to try. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be an epilogue on their life together. I hope I can post it tomorrow <3!  
> I'm a little overwhelmed by the response this story got. Thank you all for reading, kudoing and commenting. I know it's not an easy going fic so thanks all the more!


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set six months later than the previous chapters... Timmy reflects on what happened to them since. It has been a somewhat bumpy ride. There's also some sex in this but it's not overtly smutty. It's more about how they deal with their insecurities and figure things out in their relationship. Which they eventually do. But beware, it's still not all rainbows...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I really wanted to post this earlier, right before the Oscars. But real life intervened (not that it was a bad intervention, mind, I just had no time to write this properly). And it kept getting longer and longer... sigh.
> 
> But now it's finished so here you go, enjoy!
> 
> And as Timmy didn't get an Oscar, none of this will ever happen...

Timmy stares at himself in the large mirror, bathing in the warm sunlight floating in through the huge open window, speckling the walls with golden spots. The sunbeams seem to carry the smell of lavender, the heady scent reminding Timmy of carefree summers spent in France over a decade ago with his dad's family.

Those days are over. But he still hopes for some peace and quiet. He needs it. They need it.

As he glances at his reflection it's obvious that he's put on some weight but is still way too thin. Yet his body is getting more defined with Armie's firm regime: jogging, swimming, pumping iron. It helps them both to resist the siren call of the poison of their choosing.

Timmy touches the white skin of his inner elbow where his veins stand out a ghostly blue, still marred. But the marks are fading. It's a daily struggle but one he tackles with growing confidence. He's sought out professional help and it... helps.

He's also cut his hair. The short curls make him look a little more mature, exposing the sharp edges of his face, his prominent cheekbones, his rather square chin.

They've only arrived three days ago but the summer sun has already peppered the back of his nose with freckles. His nether region between lower belly and mid-thigh is significantly paler than the rest of his body. Almost like five years ago. Timmy smiles at the memory of those short shorts and all the wardrobe malfunctions they caused. No one had minded back then. I had only gotten complicated afterwards... 

And now they are here. Together.

Armie had just finished a play back in New York, running from April to mid-June, to rave reviews. There's talk of another Tony for him. In other news, contrary to the usual practice, it hadn’t been Timmy who’d been dropped from PTA'S project. Instead, James had to withdraw. There had been talk after the incident at the party, resulting in two young male actors approaching the production company. Their stories had led to the quiet termination of James' contract. 

Armie had wanted more, had wanted to see him exposed as the bastard he is – but Timmy had resolutely refused to give an official statement, either to the producers or – god forbid – the police.

“But now they would believe you!” Armie had exclaimed. “I don't understand why you don't want to get back at him.”

“Because I'm more than just his victim!” Timmy had yelled, slamming the door shut on his way out.

Their china had rapidly decreased.

Timmy had filmed from March to early June, in LA and Toronto. With both of them working it had been difficult to adjust their schedules. They'd made the most of the odd weekend off that Timmy had been able to travel back to NY. But instead of killing their blossoming relationship, the separation had given them time and space to figure certain things out.

Now, Timmy is preparing for a movie he'll shoot in August in France with Mia Hansen-Love. Armie will be in London by that time, reprising one of his Broadway plays in the West End. The train journey from Paris to London takes just a little over two hours. 

But before that, they've decided to stay at this lovely old house in Provence for a few weeks, just relaxing, getting away from all the mayhem surrounding their lives in New York.

Those past six months have been simply crazy. For a few days, back in December, they'd been the talk of the town, their faces plastered all over the web. Until another celebrity scandal broke – a famous British actor and his wife splitting up – which had replaced their party incident in the headlines.

They'd been together non-stop after Timmy's birthday until New Years Eve, only separating when Armie had a performance. At midnight, they'd toasted to a happier year. On New Years Day, Timmy had moved in with Armie.

Yes, it had been fast. Too fast. After the first dizzy high of having found each other again had worn off, they'd fought. For real. Constantly. 

They'd fought about Timmy’s music being too loud and his clothes strewn all over the floor, about neither of them doing the dirty dishes, about Armie’s habit of showering for ages while Timmy needed the bathroom, about who had to do the shopping – mundane couple stuff. They'd loved it. Every second of it.

Though the permanent tension had grated on their nerves. Especially as they'd both tried to stay away from the substances they'd used in their past to numb their feelings and anxieties: booze, pills, drugs, casual sex.

To be honest, sex had been an issue as of its own... Hell, they'd been both so deprived of physical contact that they had to get used to sleep with the other in one and the same bed to start with. After everything, it had been difficult to just recreate their easy camaraderie from Italy. That had been another life, just fun and games, unburdened by consequences and shame. 

Not anymore. They were both older now and highly aware of what was at stake.

Contrary to their usual dynamic, this time Timmy had been in the lead. He was the one who'd actually had full on sex with men, after all. Penetrative sex. Active and passive. Armie on the other hand could just draw from some one-sided fumbling and a handful of blow jobs delivered out of necessity, not lust.

So Timmy had risen to the task and had shown him. Kissing had been surprisingly easy. Cuddling as well. But anything below the waist had simply freaked Armie out. When Timmy had brushed a finger over his hole once, Armie'd pushed him away.

“Don't!”

“Okay. Sorry.”

Timmy had accepted Armie's boundaries because he'd known too well what it meant if they were overstepped.

Other things though had eventually developed, silently rutting together in the darkness, for example. After some time, Armie had also allowed Timmy to give him a hand job, even to suck him off. On his knees, Timmy had bend his neck and angled his face away so all Armie had been able to see when he'd looked down had been a dark mop of long curls while he'd felt a warm, wet mouth working on him.

Never had Timmy asked for reciprocation. One night, however, Armie had reached over and had started jerking him off, in the dark, without a word. Timmy had been too surprised to refuse. He'd come almost instantly. Afterwards, Armie had gotten up quickly, locking himself in the bathroom for a long time.

Despite his post-orgasmic haze, Timmy had felt like shit. Therefore, he'd refused Armie's half-hearted offer the next time his hand had crept over after a blow job. 

“I'm good. Let's go to sleep.”

Only when he'd been sure that Armie had dozed off had he started to bring himself off with fast strokes, eyes closed, just concentrating on his hand on his body, imagining it was Armie's. He'd been so caught up in his fantasies that he'd incorporated the shift of the mattress as well as the quickening breath next to him until it had sounded like a gasp.

In shock, Timmy's eyes had snapped open, becoming suddenly aware that Armie was anything but sleeping; he'd been watching him instead in the semi-darkness, wide-eyed and hungry. 

They'd stared at each other in a mixture of embarrassment and arousal that had done nothing to dampen Timmy's excitement. On the contrary, his treacherous cock had twitched in his fist. He'd been unable to see Armie's face in the gloom but had been pretty sure that he'd licked his lips.

Next thing Timmy had known, Armie had fumbled for the light switch, and a moment later, their bed had been bathed in the dimmed glow of the bedside lamp. Timmy had blushed so hard he'd been able to actually feel his cheeks burn until Armie's huge hand had closed around his own on his leaking shaft.

It had just lingered there for a moment but that gesture had been enough to get him going again.

Armie had watched, his eyes raking over Timmy's straining body. Timmy had been writhing in the sheets, turning his face to the wall as his fist blurred on his cock while his other hand had played with one of his peaked rosy nipples. As he'd felt his orgasm building low in his guts, he'd wanted to hide, to cover himself, but Armie had grabbed his wrist and squeezed it hard. His other hand had touched Timmy's chin, gently forcing his head around, holding his gaze as Timmy shattered.

He'd come so hard he'd almost passed out, shooting his load all over his chest right up to his neck, hitting Armie's hand still resting there. Instead of shying away in disgust, however, Armie had smeared his fingers through the mess, painting circles on Timmy's body, unblinking, staring mesmerized. After a few moments, he'd raised his gooey fingers up to his mouth and licked, tasting Timmy on his tongue.

Now it had been Timmy's turn to gasp and stare.

“I like your taste.” Armie had smiled around his fingers, his tongue darting out to lick once more.

Afterwards, Armie had held him, caressing his back, his thighs, kissing his neck, his shoulders.

“And I like to watch you.” He'd murmured against Timmy's nape.

“I like you watching me, too.” It had been the simple truth.

“I should've known. You're a stage hog after all.” 

In reply, Timmy had poked Armie in the ribs before he'd straddled him, grinding his arse down against Armie's groin, staring him in the face, tired of pretending. Armie had been so hard it had made Timmy's eyes roll back in his head.

“Fuck me, Elio.” He'd whispered.

“Not like this.” Armie's voice had dropped an octave but his hands had gripped Timmy's hips, stilling him.

Nonetheless, Timmy had gyrated in his lap, looked straight into Armie's deep blue eyes and had sighed, a needy hitch in his voice: “Fuck me, Timmy.” 

And Armie finally had.

Timmy had managed to stay silent during it which hadn't been easy given Armie's girth and strength. But it had been mandatory to keep up the illusion. Timmy had been sure that his skin was soft and hairless enough in most places to pass for a woman's. He'd desperately hoped that Armie wouldn't come to his senses.

The next few times, Timmy had insisted for the lights off. He'd gotten on all fours with his back turned to Armie so he wouldn't have had to acknowledge that the person he was buried in balls deep was in fact a man.

Until Armie had asked him point blank after an orgasm so intense that Timmy had bitten his lips bloody in the effort not to moan and scream: “Why are you always so quiet. Don't you like it?”

“What?” Timmy had mumbled, trying to crawl away like he had done every time to give Armie space.

“Why don't you never let go? Is it not good for you?” There had been such concern in Armie's voice that Timmy, in his hormone-infused state, had felt tears well up in his eyes. Only biting the inside of his cheek had prevented him from crying like a silly little kid.

He'd managed to shake his head in reply and started to climb out of bed. “I have to clean up,” he'd murmured, but Armie had grabbed him around the waist and had pulled him back.

“Tell me, just tell me, please. I can't live with thinking that I might... be hurting you.” Armie's voice had broken. Timmy had felt like shit.

“Please, no, no... you're not. It's... oh god, I'm still not sure you like... men in general. In... this way.” Timmy had been grateful for the darkness enveloping them. “So I try to stay quiet to not remind you...” He had been unable to go on.

Armie had hugged him so tight it had been difficult to breath. “You fucking stupid idiot.”

Eventually, Armie had released him, just before their bodies had gotten glued together by their drying bodily fluids. But instead of letting him escape to the bathroom, Armie had switched the light on, held Timmy's face between his huge palms and said: “I want to hear you beg, whimper, moan, scream and gasp if you like it, Timmy. I want to see you when I'm inside you. I want to look you in the face when you come. Can you do that for me?”

“I thought...”

“What?”

“I... I'm a... why would you want to...” Just the idea of putting his deepest fears into words had been agonizing: That Armie would stop touching him when he had to admit that he was with a man. Blow jobs, hand jobs, even fucking into a tight passage might feel good no matter who offered. But accepting that one was doing another dude was a huge step. Timmy had doubted that Armie had been ready to take it, especially with a lanky, troubled boy like him.

But Armie had just stared at him, puzzled, until his face had gone soft. “Oh, Timmy. I want you. Okay? All of you. Your bony arse and your slim hips and your long fingers and your barely visible shade and the fuzz on your legs...” Armie had started to make his point by kissing every body part he'd mentioned.

At that, Timmy had started giggling.

“...and your cock.” Armie had grinned back. Timmy had gasped when Armie's stubbly cheek had brushed between his legs before he'd moved up his body again, kissing Timmy hard on the mouth as if to seal an unspoken vow.

Next time, the light had stayed on.

By the end of January, rumors concerning their new living arrangements had surfaced on the usual gossip sites. They had both been surprised that it had taken this long for the press to catch on. However, this had prompted both their managements to spring into action. A strategy had been devised. Timmy remembers them sitting side by side like naughty schoolboys caught red-handed on Armies – no, now their couch while his rep, a tall, thin lady with ice-blue eyes, her blond hair pulled into a tight bun, had explained the new regime:

“Friends. Best friends. Cohabiting because they both happen to stay in New York at the same time. For old time’s sake.”

Timmy had stared down onto his feet and felt cold all over. He hadn't wanted to hide anymore. They'd been discreet in public so far – as they were still figuring out stuff. But that had been of their own account – not because someone else had told them to.

Armie had been very quiet during the whole conversation, yet his left leg had jumped up and down. Timmy had known by then that this was a nervous tick Armie resorted to when he had no idea how to let off steam.

“You’ll have to keep your joint public appearances to an absolute minimum. No physical contact outside these four walls. And even at home you should start closing the blinds before having a go at it. There are quite powerful photo lenses available today. There's a price on your heads, boys. Who gets the first money shot has made it. Stay clear from social media as well.”

“There’s nothing we have to be ashamed off.” Armie had said.

“You say that again when you see your dick on TMZ, Armie, probably in Timothée’s mouth. Remember how Liz and your mum think about these things? Good, that should weaken your appetite.”

With that, she had risen and left.

Armie had stayed seated, looking intently at Timmy.

“Hey, are you okay?” He’d asked eventually.

Timmy had just shrugged, unable to face Armie because he'd known what he would see: pity, sadness, jaded exhaustion mixed with low-key disappointment. Regret.

“You know, she just wants to protect us.” Armie had said very softly.

Of course Timmy had been aware by that time that there was always the custody question looming like the sword of Damocles over Armie’s life, slowly contaminating what was growing between them. Because despite his words claiming the contrary, Timmy had been sure that Armie was in fact ashamed of his desire for him and of what they did in bed.

As if on cue, Armie had reassured him: “We’ll be fine.” Timmy had wanted to believe but couldn't.

Instead, he'd just shrugged again. Armie had gone for a run in Central Park soon afterwards, escaping the reproachful silence between them.

As if the day hadn't been bad enough already, Timmy had to attend some industry dinner that evening; alone, as it turned out after Armie's return, because after the chat with his rep Armie wouldn't accompany him. 

In retrospect, what had happened next shouldn't have surprised anyone.

Armie's refusal had resulted in a blazing row that had left Timmy so anxious and drained that he’d felt the need to take three Xanax to just be able to make it out of the flat. Combined with the champagne and wine served at the party that he'd felt unable to reject – why should he? - he'd already been so spaced out by the start of dinner that he'd barely made it through the three hours and surely weirded out his table neighbor with his monosyllabic answers until he’d stopped trying to engage in conversation with him.

He'd no idea how he'd made it home. This hadn't happened since his birthday.

Back at the flat, he’d found Armie already asleep on the couch, cradling a nearly empty bottle of Bushmill's. It had been the first time he’d touched anything stronger than a beer since Timmy had moved in.

On a whim, Timmy had finished the bottle. Next thing he'd known, he'd woken up on the bathroom floor, lying in his own sick. He hadn't even cared.

Armie’d found him like this the next morning. 

Despite being obviously hung-over himself, he'd cleaned him up without hesitation, murmuring “It's okay, you'll be okay, come on, you can do this” as he'd put him into bed. There, he'd forced him to down a can of Pepsi and swallow a handful of charcoal tablets before he'd gotten on the phone and yelled at his rep for ten minutes straight.

Timmy had been too tired to listen and had just pulled a pillow over his head. Armie had removed that rather forcefully when he'd returned to their bedroom.

“Hey, just leave me to die...,” Timmy had mumbled, upon which Armie had pinned him down onto the mattress and hissed: “Don't you fucking dare!”

It had taken Timmy a moment to see that Armie hadn't been joking.

“Armie, god, that wasn't... I wasn't... don't be stupid.” Though his voice had been so thin he'd sounded not very convincing, not even to his own ears.

Armie had stared down at him so intensely Timmy had had trouble swallowing. His mouth had felt dry, his throat parched.

“This happens again, I'm out. Understood?” Armie had sounded so angry that Timmy had flinched.

“You're hurting me.” He'd whispered.

“Same.”

The day had gone by in a bit of a blur afterwards, with Timmy drifting in and out of sleep. In the evening, however, Armie had urged him to get up, take a shower and accompany him to the theater restaurant before his performance. Timmy had still felt sick but had known that he had to eat something eventually, so he'd agreed, albeit reluctantly. He'd just put on one of Armie's oversized hoodies, hanging loosely from his narrow shoulders, rolled up jeans and boots, hiding his reddened eyes behind dark shades.

When they'd stepped outside their apartment building, meeting the usual crowd of paparazzi gathering there around the clock, Armie had demonstratively taken his hand and hadn't let got until they'd both sat in the back of a taxi. Over a quick dinner at the theater, he'd still held his hand, even as they were sitting at a table by the window. When it had been time to go backstage, Armie had leaned in and kissed him, really kissed him, with tongue and all, leaving Timmy blushing and breathless. Even behind the window pane he'd been able to he hear the cameras clicking into overdrive.

So that had been that.

Naturally, these pics had caused another riot. But Armie had surprised him again as he'd made a point to speak only to journalists from the like of Pink Magazine or Desert Daily Guide, always consulting with Timmy beforehand, asking if he wanted to join the interviews. He never had. But he'd read every article with a glowing pride, realizing that Armie called him his partner.

Yet having been publicly outed a few years back against his will had left scars he wasn't able to ignore. Armie had understood.

“I get it. You don't want to talk about us to the press and that's okay. But will you do me the honor to wear this, as a token?” Armie had asked a week later, presenting Timmy with a simple silver ring. Timmy had been speechless at first but had nodded. When Armie had put the band on the third finger of his left hand, he'd started to grin like an idiot.

“I thought you were done with this sort of thing.”

“I thought so too. And here we are.” Armie had grinned back at him.

That night, Timmy had fucked Armie for the first time. Hard and fast. They'd both loved it, bathing in the afterglow, snuggling together afterwards in the warmth of their huge bed, making silly jokes. Timmy had been unable to take his eyes of the ring gleaming on his finger, holding his hand up above his head.

“You like it?” Armie had asked.

“I love it." Which had meant _'I love you'_.

Yet sometimes, Timmy's still totally convinced that the price Armie'd payed for what they have is too high. In these dark moments he feels so fucking guilty for ruining his life that it makes him physically sick. That feeling had intensified after he'd overheard a phone call by mid-February between Armie and Elizabeth.

“Why not?” - “You can't do that!” - “That has nothing to do with them... you know I love them.” - “Liz, please, don't do that. I beg you.” - “No. You are as crazy as my mother.” - “Liz, sorry, I'm so sorry, I apologize... Yes, of course.” - Yes. No. Liz, please.”

Armie had locked himself inside his office after that, listening to Oneohtrix Point Never at full blast for over an hour until Timmy, overcome by self-loathing, had hated himself so much that he had to escape the apartment. He'd wandered around Hell's Kitchen, eventually ending up in his grandmother's flat just a few blocks from their home. She'd hugged him and made him cocoa before they'd watched some silly game show together. She hadn't asked why he'd come by but had kissed him on both cheeks when he'd left and told him to give a big squishy smacker to his fella.

“Where have you been?” Armie had asked upon his return.

“Out.”

“Don't do that, please. Don't leave without telling me.”

“Why? Are you my keeper? I didn't do anything, I just went to my gran's.”

“That's not what I meant.” Armie had said and had sounded so deflated that all fight had been knocked out off Timmy. He'd just hugged him tight and delivered the kiss from his grandma. That had made Armie laugh.

“Liz won't allow the kids to come over as long as you stay here.” He'd explained eventually. “Bad influence, she calls you.”

“I can move out?” Timmy had suggested.

“No, you really can't.” Armie had kissed him back then, deep and wet. “I'll get my lawyers onto her. Enough is enough.”

Timmy knows now that it had been expensive, time-consuming and exhausting – but in the end, a court had ruled that Armie and Liz had to share custody. So, in a few days, Harper and Ford will arrive in France, to spent four weeks of summer vacation with them.

To his own surprise, Timmy is really looking forward to it. He knows how much Armie misses his kids. Their absence is like a phantom pain, an itch that can't be scratched. And Timmy loves kids, especially these two. He'll see a lot more of them in the future and that's both daunting and worth striving for. They will be a family, he thinks, playing with the silver ring on his finger. He's a lucky little bugger, isn't he?

Just when he's broadly grinning at himself in the mirror the bedroom door opens and Armie walks in. He's wearing swim trunks, and for a second Timmy's catapulted back in time five years to a tiny town in Italy. Armie doesn't look a day older than back then with his sun-streaked blond hair, his blazing blue eyes and all 6'5 of him tanned a light shade of gold. Timmy's grin widens even further as they lock eyes in the mirror.

“What?” Armie asks, the warm smile on his face resonating in his voice.

“Nothing.” Timmy slowly turns around. _'I'm just so fucking happy. You make me so fucking happy.'_ But out loud he says: “Let's go swimming.”

_**\- The End -** _

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this, I'm on [tumblr](https://isitandwonder.tumblr.com/)


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